


Fit For a Queen

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Skeleton Key [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom Tony Stark, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, Hardcore, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, Sounding, Stony - Freeform, Tony Wants This, Top Steve Rogers, Training, Urethral Play, size queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: An impressive piece of Asgardian porn inspires Tony to build something extra large and extra special to supplement his training. A size queen like him won't be satisfied by anything but the biggest cock.





	1. Setting the Stage

**Author's Note:**

> This sequence of events comes hot on the heels of Filled to Capacity and Nipped in the Bud. Though it's not necessary to read them in sequential order, the events of Tony's training make more sense after understanding his encounter with the Chitauri void and Steve putting him through his paces. As ever, I love feedback and comments. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and comments always appreciated.

_Never again,_ Tony promises himself in a hazy stupor, clutching the leather arms of the reclining seat, frozen rapt by the whirlwind pageantry of blue-skinned giants and long-limbed, graceful elves in diaphanous attire unfolding around him. Some movie; this is more real than life. Projected jotunn in their dark clothes glide past at the whim of an Asgardian device of some kind or another. He's sure if he reaches out, he could touch them. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth while he tries to absorb everything unfolding about the private theatre in futility and simultaneously to retract into a mental nautilus shell to brave the storm.

Two hours -- and it feels like ten since he sat down -- of nonstop performance and he’s wrung out, pent up, and hopelessly, _totally_ shriven. Whatever some long ago English teacher taught him about catharsis, they had no comprehension about the Asgardian equivalent.

“Low Asgardian theatre my ass,” he mutters.

Steve squeezes his leg in warning.

Ought to be called a porno, but if _any_ outlet can replicate a third -- no, make that a fifth -- of this, Stark Industries will no longer be one of the richest privately-held corporations in the world. The technology simply doesn’t exist -- _yet, make a point to work on that_ \-- to fully submerge an audience in the lush textural details and experiences like this projection can. And Thor, smirking bastard of a prince, had them all in the palm of his hand when he stepped up to the challenge that would blow their minds and their “other things” for the Friday night get together.

 _Even without the buzz, we never stood a chance._ He’ll get his revenge later. Now all he can do is hold on and remember to breathe.

Everywhere he looks, images flood his senses, and the sentences wind around his head in a fugue, translated dutifully by FRIDAY into English, rather than the actors’ native Asgardian or elven or whatever they are. Every effort to shift himself surreptitiously failed to the utmost, with Steve resting a hand mildly on his thigh in remonstration for getting hard.

Would that Steve jacks him off then and there in the dark, while Thor uproariously laughs and throws his head back, or Sam peers at the vicissitudes of martial prowess between well-thewed giants and a slim blonde elf queen in the last, mighty reclamation of her kingdom? After the unbelievable, jaw-dropping ravages she endured in its defense, the gushing climaxes and frost giant dominating her -- looked a lot like a blue Loki, come to think -- almost led him to stroke his cock openly then and there. That barely clad actress, wrecked and somehow regal, strides through the theatre and seems to meet Tony’s eyes as she leans forward and speaks her final, last flowery dialogue of triumph and exaltation.

_You were an ice giant’s plaything half an hour ago, honey. I watched you take like three feet of big blue frost giant dick. How the hell are you bending forward?_

A question of magical physics not a whole lot different than magical biology in anime pumped out by Japanese and Korean filmmakers, really. He needs only close his eyes to remember her breasts jiggling in her torn dress, the huge shaft hollowing out her formerly flat stomach, and shooting a disbelieving look to Thor as the blond god basked in his triumph, smirking back at him and nodding to say, _yes, that’s real_.

A lost opportunity now. He had hopes of Steve’s composure cracking, that large hand wrapping around his cock and milking an orgasm out of him in taut, wordless silence -- dashed, as ever, by the prim and proper behaviour he’s come to expect out of freaking Captain America. No matter. As the fanfare swells in the background and the harpists pluck their shimmering songs, the projection starts to fade away to encapsulate them in darkness. A brief foray.

Now all he has to do is walk out the door into the privacy of his lab, and hope to make it another twenty steps into FRIDAY’s willing arms.

* * *

 

For several minutes they all sit in silence, six men in silence, until the laughing Asgardian throws his arms wide. “See! Is that not a _true_ example of licentiousness and wantonness? You cannot fail to admit we excel in an engrossing tale now.”

All eyes shift as Sam, Clint, and Tony glare at him, and he only chuckles the deeper. Next to Tony, Steve merely shakes his head. “I wasn’t sure I was ever in on this wager.”

“A cultural experience, then.”

“He just made Captain America watch elf smut,” Clint whispers _sotto voce_ to Bruce, who has busied himself with cleaning up a few of the cups gathered next to his seat. The deliberate attempt to ignore what’s been said only makes Tony roll his eyes. _Bit more than smut, really_.

Gathering themselves takes time and effort. They trip over the bottles littering the floor and accidentally kick plastic red Solo cups away in their slow departure, proof of how potent the offered libations and snacks really are on even a fit man’s biology. With any luck, Tony figures he can throw back one of Steve’s energy shakes and down a few Red Bulls. He has work to do tonight, work not to be interrupted by the nuisance of sleep. Sleep is for the dead.

“Remind me to never, _ever_ challenge Thor about the quality of Asgardian performances again.” Clint rubs his hand over his cropped blond hair, the serrated gold spikes standing up like shorn wheat stalks warmed by the autumn sun. He shears sideways, none too steady.

Hot on his heels, if only in his haste to be gone, Sam stifles a choked laugh. “Does it count if it’s obviously made up?”  
  
“You watch the same show I did? Pretty sure that’s all real.”

The pilot snorts indecently, looking over his shoulder. “Animation.”

“Hell no! Thor, tell him it’s real!” Clint calls, too loud, words slurring a little.

The booming thunder of a laugh rolls in their wake and the mighty golden god of thunder lounges in his seat, a glass of some brilliant cerulean liquid at his lips. He intends not to leave, by the looks of it, and Tony can’t blame him. Given the calibre of ‘cheap entertainment’ he’s regaled them with, Thor probably needs relief of his own behind closed doors. Hell, so does Tony as he tries to arrange his trousers just so.

“No way,” Sam says at the same time Thor replies, bluff as ever, “Entirely. ‘Tis a wonder of the people of Alfheim -- and Svartalfheim, I suppose. Elves have a physiology superior to any human, most assuredly, and certain types of them might perform feats you scarce imagine. The triple-jointed pleasure elves--”

“Are totally a myth,” Bruce mutters.

Ignoring the interruption, Thor goes on, “Could easily accommodate a troll or even a jotun, were they so inclined. Though finding one who would acquiesce to such ignominy would be an epic tale of itself.”

To all this, there can be only one response: blithe shock, all around, even from Steve, who willingly gazes upwards at the ceiling for relief or the rapture to carry him away from the men he calls his best friends, his right hands, and his greatest allies.

The smug look on Clint’s face is matched by a heavy-lidded, glazed look to his eyes they probably almost all share in common, save the saintly man Tony so loves, and he quietly curses under his breath not even that breaks the captain’s legendary composure. Surely there has to be _something_ on earth to crack that expression.

Waved on by the thunder god, he laughs. “I acclaim this a victory for myself. Fear not, that actress be not harmed. She has quite the reputation for accommodating whatever great weight the producers place on her shoulders.” Innuendo laced heavily on the air is impossible for anyone to overlook, and that hastens Clint heading out the door, laughing all the way.

* * *

 

“You weigh a lot more than you look,” mutters Sam. He manages to keep Clint up with difficulty, arm wrapped around his midsection. Together they stagger into the hallway, swaying on a ragged path that meanders left and right without any sort of reason.

Baring his teeth in a feral grin, Clint wraps his vambraced forearm none too lightly around the dark shoulders supporting him. “You don’t seem so steady either, Wilson.”

“I’ve lugged lighter fridges.”

“Gentlemen, let’s not argue.” Steve murmurs as he emerges through the darkened doorway. “Or at least save your disagreements for the morning.”

In their wake, Steve does most of the work carrying Tony, though he manages the virtuous trick of appearing not to do so at all. A good thing, really, since the track of Tony’s thoughts keeps him far away from the intimately lit hallway. All his weight lies upon the arm offered to him, for even putting one foot in front of the other takes a particular kind of focus he simply can’t muster. After emerging from the gloom of the theatre, the glimmering dazzle hurts his eyes.

“You doing okay?” the blond murmurs.

“Uh-huh.” Of course, Captain Rogers is perfect and peachy and not at all blitzed thanks to the brewers of another realm. He rather likes the fizzy weightlessness in his veins, the taste of sunshine on his tongue. _Magic of being a super soldier. Erskine didn’t have any tolerance for a good soldier having a beer, I’ll bet_.

Turning his head to keep Sam or Clint from hearing, Steve says, “You’ve been real quiet since the show.”

“It’s a lot to take in.”

“But did you like it?”

The tremors under Steve’s fingers should be answer enough, the magnetic stirrings at the wild, ribald, almost impossibly passionate scenes played out in detail lusher than life. No one told him that the cube Thor brought projected imagery so intense he tasted the snow on the air or felt the tremors of a giant stamping down an ice-shocked path. No idea how Asgardians managed to control the ambient temperature to plunge them into Arctic lows until his sensitive nipples contracted to hard points or his skin crawled under his shirt in a vague attempt to stay warm.

No, Tony’s problems aren’t due to the alcohol at all but the content of the last three hours, though damn if he intends to share his thoughts on that. Let Clint run at the mouth about it, he keeps his confidence about grandiose battles and melodramatic elves clutched in a giant’s hands, or the sight of said elf being an oiled, moaning, shaking cocktoy for some blue-skinned man with a wicked smile -- burning right into the marrow of him.

Pointless, though, trying to hide anything from Steve by this point. You think he’d learn by now, but he never does. Tony smirks anyways, dented dimples in his cheeks, and dares to steer a little further away as though he’s got his own feet.

A firm pinch on his puffy nipple through the heavy cotton undershirt is no accident. He almost misses a step and catches himself, appearing to stumble just like all the rest. The slight twist on the soft nub stretches it, the fabric wrung in turn. Two swift pulls and Steve leaves him be, guiding him further into the hallway while he tries not to swallow his tongue. Anyone looking at him will see the points hardening up under his shirt, the way the dark cotton pulls over his nipple into a taut, high tent.

_Fuck. No way to hide that._

He nods. It’s enough to please his boyfriend -- but he never misses the dark gleam in those warm eyes, and what that gleam portends leaves his cock aching.

The last of them to ghost out of the theatre chuckles grimly. In his button-down shirt and khakis, Bruce looks as though he got lost on his way back to his office and fell in with the wrong sort of people. He needs a shave and an iron to set things to right, and frankly he’s far too alert for Tony’s tastes.  
  
_Figures. Some people have all the luck._ A shudder runs down his back and unsettles the already immense knot of pleasure and trembling desire coagulating in his thoughts, drifting through his bloodstream along with the drunken haze. Clarity won’t come quick at this rate.

“You’re no fun,” Clint shoots back. “Tony, I thought we talked about this.”

The question rips him out of his hazy fugue and he stares at the archer, turning inwards to Steve to protect himself from discovery. He doesn't want to explain his nipples being this puffy and full, sticking out through his shirt.

His tight chest aches and the other nipple, untouched, throbs with his pulse. He has no idea what Clint’s talking about, no idea what he promised, nothing but the yearning for those big hands fondling his fat nubs again. One brushes against Steve’s sculpted bicep, no mere accident given the sly smile, and he has to fight to even ask, “What?”

“Lost cause.” Bruce tugs on his misbuttoned tweed jacket, straightening the lines that ended up a bit hopelessly crumpled from being wedged into one of the seats of the private theatre rigged up by a top-of-the-line sound system and projector. “Rogers, you got these louts in hand?”

Sam whistles through his teeth. “No need for names.” He manages to conceal the effects of inebriation better than his companion, and a misstep throws both of them practically to their knees, wobbling over a framed painting of Captain America braving some unlikely stony outcropping in Europe, tanks and battalions in disarray ahead of him. They manage only to clip the frame and go down in a tangled heap.

“Tell you what, I’m gonna scram before they break something.” Bruce barely throws a wave over his shoulder before he lengthens his stride.

“That man holds his liquor way too well,” Clint protests from the floor.

Steve glances at Tony and, after receiving his nod, disengages to go offer a hand to Sam and Clint, whichever thinks the better of trying to haul him down into their little knot of limbs and shirts. “Probably the other guy’s fault. Up we go, huh?”

Tony leans back against the wall, grateful for the cool paint between his shoulder blades and the steady, upright quality. He watches his friends finding their own personal space again, lifted up by Steve’s steady grip.

“I may need another chaser. All the politics gives me a headache.” The dull croak of disbelief rolls around Sam’s voice. “I’ll stick to movies where I can remember the names of the countries at least.”

He laughs in spite of himself, pulled away from his escalating ideas. “What, _you_ couldn’t follow the hot elf queen fighting off an alliance of giants and dark elves?”

Clint throws his arm around Steve’s neck and presses himself close -- _too close_ for Tony’s comfort, quite frankly -- and bats his eyelashes furiously. “Willst thou not come to mine aid, o brave champion?” he quips in a high falsetto. “For mine lands doth strive in dreadful purpose again yon massed nightfall, a terror risen as a wave uninhibited against the fair white shore _unprotected_ against such ravages!”

The very sound of such flowery language sets Sam off, burying his face in his hands, while Tony can’t help but muster a laugh.  
  
“I had no idea you were into drama. You ever thought about asking Thor to join an actor’s troupe?” Steve gently unwinds those strong limbs around his neck, giving the archer a slight push to establish him back onto his feet.

They’re all four sheets to the wind except Steve because miracle of miracles, not even the fizziest, bubbliest alcohol in impossible colours reserved for magic potions in RPGs seems to keep him buzzed for long. Under the circumstances, after a performance like that, they all deserve to fall into their beds and sleep off what’s sure to be an immense hangover. But tonight of all nights, that’s not going to happen.

“Naw,” Clint laughs again. “C’mon, you gotta come grab some food with us. Night’s still young, Stark!”

“I’ve got work to do in the lab tonight,” Tony says, waving the others off.

Steve looks at him with grave, thoughtful eyes. “All night?”

He would rather not speak a truth, but the demons of creativity ride his shoulder and images from the movie haunt his thoughts. A nod. “Yeah, gotta strike while the iron’s hot.” Frankly, this iron is fucking molten.

“Only you would run off to invent something after _Queen Aelsa’s Revenge on Jotunheim_ ,” Sam says. “I’ll keep you company, Cap, if only so you don’t have to put up with Clint re-enacting the whole second part.”

“The one where the frost giants traded her around?” Clint asks brightly.

Tony closes his eyes, pinching his brow. It’s one image he _doesn’t_ need right now, the thought of those curling toes, the uncoordinated bounce of smooth limbs, and the bliss-flooded expression. Revenge indeed.

Steve taps his shoulder. “Send me a photo when it’s assembled.” So few words conceal a veiled command that underlies it all. He doesn’t need any help interpreting the message, nodding his assent. Sobering up may not come easy, and probably better for them both if Tony’s going to execute on a terrible, no good idea -- the next stage of his size queen training.

 _Did he plan this with Thor?_ If so, the banner of American idealism once again proves he’s a master manipulator, putting that mouthwatering image into his mind of a bound maiden mindlessly succumbing to pleasure riding her captor’s huge azure shaft, squirting her pleasure in front of a cruel court of frost and ice giants. He rubs his stomach, feeling the flatness as a curse.

 _Not for long_. He veers away from them, headed for his laboratory, summoning up FRIDAY with a list of demands as he goes. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

“Commence blackout on levels three to four, and bring up _Protocol 26._ Increase all aspects by fifty percent as a baseline,” he calls out.

“But sir, that’s double the _Magna Mark Five_. I cannot recommend this course for your own health.”

“Do you have anything in there to compensate for the physical hazards?”

FRIDAY chimes. “Doctor Banner’s file upload from June 14, but those were purely speculative runs. The formula appears stable and he estimates a seventy-nine percent success rate over the three-hour window.” A pause and she says, “They’ve never been tested on humans.”

“Can we configure it to work with humans?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark, but…”

“No buts then. Run it against me and let’s get that moving. Captain Rogers has expectations we have to meet,” he replies, hands shaking as he pulls open the door. Yes, it’s going to be a long, thick, wide night. “And FRIDAY? Play _Queen Aelsa’s Revenge_ after the hour mark. I need to get proper parameters and details on some materials.”

A naked jotun bursts onto the wall of his lab, striding through the room, as countless small buried sensors fill out the details in glorious relief. He can damn well see the hoarfrost scattered across the solid blue skin, the way the giant lord’s heavy, thick cock swings almost halfway to his knees. Rather than warming to pink, that huge shaft -- easily longer than Tony’s forearm and double the width as a start, even at this ratio -- darkens through shades of blue, gaining a violet blush that darkens down to his flaring, thick tip. The domed corona resembles nothing so much as a bell, engraved by a definite ridge, widening out to a fat girth he can barely imagine even though the measurements fill out data screens in his field of vision.

“Fuck me. This is gonna make the _Magna_ look like a dog next to a horse,” he mutters aloud.

“Proceed, Mr. Stark?”

The giant projected from the film kneels to rip the filmy skirt off the defiant elf queen glaring up at him, grabbing her and lifting her up. Tony stares in rapt fascination as he pulls the blonde woman over the tip of his cock and rubs her there. The size difference is tremendous, and there’s no way someone as graceful and dainty as the elf should be able to take the thickening cylinder of cockmeat. But she does. _And it’s real, every inch._ Thor swore as much.

Well, fuck that if he won’t match some nameless triple-jointed pleasure elf from Alfheim inch for inch. He leans over his workstation, glass shining with a tremendously impressive toy, and he starts twisting dials, calibrating size.  
  
“Hell yes, FRIDAY. We’re not gonna disappoint Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here out, this story features all sorts of hardcore kinks: unrelenting fucking machines, sounding, the results of Tony's recent body modifications (thank you, Banner serum!) and nipple rings, Steve dominating Tony into a cum-soaked mess, and the most substantial being Tony's drive to be fucked catatonic on a machine with a dildo that's proportionally gigantic -- literally the size of an ice giant. Bruce's brilliant medical concoctions make this possible. Special requests, just ask!


	2. Prep Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Tony plans on taking something even larger than Steve, he needs to get good and ready to stretch further than he ever has before. Enter Bruce Banner.

Two beers down and Bruce tips back the nearly empty bottle to his lips, savouring the hints of wheat and apricot. “You feel like explaining why you broke into my files?”

 _Friday, you are so freaking fired._ Tony keeps his thoughts to himself as he leans against the wall outside the lab, confronted by a man fully capable of turning into a monster that would rip him limb from limb and demolish his lab before he blinks. He’ll deal with his truculent AI later, after she finishes assembling the pieces he spent the last two hours refining into a semblance of a suitable model.

Instead, he presses his damp lips together and eyes up the mousy, unassuming man in a totally unfashionable sport jacket that belongs back in the secondhand store where Bruce found it. Not that he can say this either.

“Last time you tried mucking around in my notes, I seem to recall something about a robotic overlord and the world’s data under siege,” Bruce adds mildly, waving the bottle around.

“That was completely different.” To the raised eyebrows of the mild scientist, he adds, “You were helping me directly. Two cooks, the same pot. I’ve learned a few things.”

Bruce points the neck of the beer bottle at him. “Yeah, about that. Maybe asking me in the first place instead of swiping my database of biotechnical formulae in development would be a great starting point. You know, some folks get a bit touchy about corporate secrets and privacy.”

“No such thing as privacy,” he says. He wants to get back into the lab and check on progress, not the least on those stolen formulae. His corrections and calibrations ought to be sufficient, but he needs to run a few experiments before he subjects himself to becoming Tony Stark, human Guinea pig.

“That’s your opinion. Just wait, next week the European Union will respond to that attitude by unveiling a whole new set of controls on you. Personally,” Bruce adds. His dark eyes travel over Tony and linger on the faint glow of the arc reactor, sliding sideways.

Under the calculated weight of that look, he swallows. “Nothing like wondering if the big green monster stares at your chest appraising if he can pull out the shiny trinket,” he mutters.

Of all their number, Banner tends to be the least physical and most mindful about personal space. Goes with the Hulk problem, but he can deliver a blunt, direct stare that goes to the heart of a man. Or in this case through the slightly damp ribbed undershirt weighing down on swollen nipples that still manage to dent the heavier fabric laid atop them. Perky nubs; he always envied young women in their tank tops that liberty, but now he prays the lighting fails to give away their prominence.

“Your data’s six months out of date, Stark. You could just _ask_ me for help.”

Any other man would blush. Corporate espionage doesn’t really register on Tony’s list of sins, but he shrugs a little. The remnants of the alcohol supplied by Thor must be playing tricks with his mind, or his situation really is desperate. If he want to play tonight, he’s going to need to make a few concessions and cut a few corners.

“You would be saving me a couple hours of effort by contributing,” he grins wide and bright. Too many teeth.

Bruce stares back with that mildly disbelieving air he carries with him almost everywhere. “Depends. What are you after?”

 _Shit. So much for subtlety_. Tony scrambles mentally for an appropriate response and ignoring the growing tension in his chest, the very thought of another injection tightening up his fat raspberry nubs. He can feel the way they firm up against the inner lining of his cotton undershirt. Time’s running out.

“I’ve got a test run with a new suit planned. Extreme environmental testing, so I’d be looking for the usual -- pain suppressant, general muscle relaxant to enhance flexibility and atmospheric pressure changes.”

“Something to take the edge off. You might want artificial endorphins and something to lower the fear response,” Bruce says, perfectly reasonable and acceptably within the bounds of a scientific conversation masquerading as a casual chat about how human limitations and not at all about how Tony’s making the largest dildo he calculated he can safely take on the other side of the wall.

“You got it. Something you can formulate?”

He smiles a little, thinking about parking tickets, GM stocks, and cacti, anything that might possibly distract from the building sensation in his nipples. More than anything, he wants to dash away and expose the thick barbells to the air in some futile hope of containing rising desire, a definite horny streak with him ever since Steve added the jewelry.

“Give me a few days, I can probably create the preliminaries.”

 _Days?_ No way can he hold off seeing the effects of the _Jotun_ that long. His hole twitches at the very thought of resisting.

“I was hoping for a more accelerated timetable,” he murmurs, voice thick.

Bruce raises his eyebrows around the frames of his glasses. “It’s Friday night. Maybe Saturday morning. What’s so critical? A mission?”  
  
Sidestepping the lie, he shakes his head. “Cap wants a proper exercise on Sunday, which means I need a working model by morning. No good without the medical enhancements to go along with it.”

“That’s seven hours.”

“Coming in loud and clear. That a no? Because if so, I really have work to do.”

Bruce steps up to him, rather carelessly running his hand through his shaggy hair. His elbow nearly knocks Tony in the chest and he backs up, pressed to the wall. “Didn’t say that. But your judgment does seem to be a little impaired around these subjects.”

Tony narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to protest, silenced by Bruce pressing the neck of the bottle right over his turgid nipple. The pressure of the glass bites through his layered shirts, rocking the round sphere securing the barbell.

He feels the metal shift through his puffy nub, and his teeth grit together while the scientist rubs the nipple around until it properly swells. His shirt is no help to conceal the plump nodule growing erect under the rough treatment.

“See?” Bruce has him on the ropes without even trying. “Think I know a thing or two about your parameters. You have a reputation for doing everything yourself, but messing around with chemical compounds and medicines could have permanent effects. I’d hate for something to go wrong.”

Pride alone keeps his jaw clenched, and Bruce never stops watching his face as he continually strokes the fat nub with the ridged edge of the bottle mouth.  
  
“You’re making your point clear.”

“I’ll help you on the condition I monitor you throughout.”  
  
There’s the rub. What can he say? Tony glances sidelong into the empty hall, then at the ceiling, finding no respite there. “It’s up to Cap. His session.”

“I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, let me get everything loaded onto the computer,” Bruce murmurs, and crushes Tony’s other nipple between his fingers, rolling the barbell around.  
Tony starts to pant almost uncontrollably, pushing himself up against the wall. That only serves to drag his stiff nub out, pulling the surrounding tissue out in a gentle cone. He fights not to thrust his hips while Bruce casually toys with the puffy shaft. Pressure pinches down hard, painful, and recedes into a melting glow that makes his obscenely large nipples centerstage. They both stand out from his chest, trying to poke holes through his shirt.

“Steve…” he groans.

“See what I mean? Can't even concentrate."

 _You try concentrating having your ultrasensitive nipples squeezed, asshat._ He clamps his mouth shut, deliberately looking away.

A little beer spilled on his shirt leaves the swollen nipple cloaked in damp cloth, long and soft. Bruce carelessly repeats the process on the other.

"Ah. _Ahgh_..." 

"Try not to blow anything up before I get back. You may not care about safety but the rest of us do.”  
  
Tony licks his lips and almost keens on the spot when his molested nips are milked through Bruce’s tight fingertips, sliding through the pinch of his index finger and thumb.  _More. More, so close_.

“You’re coming along nicely. Tell you what, if you’re good, I might even throw in a few refinements.” Bottle to his lips, Bruce swallows the last swig of beer and turns down the hall, ignoring the writhing, shuddering man against the wall. “Be ready in a half hour, that should be enough.”

* * *

 

Thirty minutes is not nearly enough for Tony to complete everything he needs. He’d prefer an hour alone to recalibrate the _Jotun_ against the measurements pulled from an Asgardian projection cube, refining the glossy lapis blue dimensions. Thirty minutes to configure the laboratory for the sins he and Steve are about to commit, at the very least.

Hell, thirty minutes to toy with those glossy titanium barbells rammed through his nipples, watching the projection of golden-haired Queen Aelsa of the elves smearing her elf honey on a giant’s thick cock as he screws it into her tiny pussy, lodging her atop it while she tries not maintain her regal composure and ends up howling like a banshee.

His pants feel very tight indeed at the thought of the dusky blue crown splitting those pink folds and vanishing slowly into her rosy hole stretched to the brink.

Memorizing the moment when the compressed crown squeezes through her entrance and pops back inside her slick channel is a necessity. That sound is decadent. He daydreams about redheaded girls and the elf queen and himself as he absently redirects resources to power the machine the  _Jotun_ will be mounted to.

Roughly palming his cock, he proceeds into the assembly area.

“Show me what we’ve got.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” chimes his AI assistant. Whirling arms assemble glossy plates around the laboratory walls, giving a pristine, futuristic glow to the place that only reinforces the obscenity he wants to recreate. Sensors focus and there it is, a perfect duplicate of the ice giant’s oversized phallus from the swaying, hairless balls to the very rounded tip.

His knees go weak and he catches himself on a metal strut supporting one of the shafts printing out the body of the larger than life fucktoy. 

FRIDAY has outdone herself nonetheless. He can see how the veins throb and thicken on the projection, and dizzy he notes the serpentine meanders on the side are as wide as his finger.

“How much elasticity are we talking here?”

“Expansion of up to twenty-five percent per your criteria,” she says.

Summoning up a supreme effort of will, Tony tries not to collapse to the floor. His hand tightens around the warm chrome. “Make sure the reservoir functions comparably. No point in having the tap on for a hose and the same volume as a straw.”

FRIDAY again chimes and presents a set of marigold schema for his approval. He makes a few adjustments, floating dials hovering on the point of excessive to outright mad. Does he need a thick spray of lube inside?

The pang in his cock and his balls answer that, and he shuts his eyes, committing the higher numbers. Data enters the printers and they continue to replicate the giant’s cock in all its glorious detail. _Thank you, Thor, for providing me the disgustingly accurate proportions of a frost giant prince for my own hedonistic revels_.

Somewhere, the memory of that sly smile and overwhelming arrogance trails an illusory fingertip up the curve of his spinal column.

“Loki. That movie could be Loki fucking an elf?” he murmurs in disbelief. And he  _wants_  that too.

Watching the snapshot of the elf struggling in the blue fingers engulfing her, his body tightens in the flush of pleasure. Heat blooms prickly and flush over his chest as he watches the long-limbed actress stuffed by _jotun_ cock, her taut stomach shaped by the enormous bobbing tip pushed deeper into her. The diaphanous dress starts to tear, stretched past its maximum capacity, captured in lifelike detail by the projected movie, and he reaches out as though expecting to feel the cock-head moving inside her. If only. Transfixed, he loses all track of time.

Long enough for Bruce to rap his fist on the glass partition wall.

 _Thirty minutes already?_ His shocked gaze travels to the clock mounted on the wall. So much for the effective use of time.

Tony pushes the door open, glad for once the blackout rules mean not even the scientist can penetrate the frosted walls. “Why is no one else ever this punctual?”

“You’re the one who said this was a rush job.” Bruce shrugs his left shoulder. “I’m happy to go back to bed if that’s the case.”

He knows full well it isn’t to be that likely to drawl, fixing Tony with that direct stare burning right into the tumultuous arousal gripping him in its burning restraints.

“Since you want to hear it, I need your help and thank you for staying up to get this done.” His pride stings a little as he gives the words a certain sass, and turns away to gesture to a corner of the lab swept clean and completely innocuous.

“This your workstation? Pretty bare, even for you.” Bruce glances at the usual array of glass and two neat tables, setting down a bag that resonates an audible glassy chime. He unzips the compartment and pulls out a glass tumbler pierced by a thick straw. Tony arches an eyebrow.

“Snack time?”

“Nah, that’s for you. Go get a banana to make it taste better,” Bruce says.

Downing anything right now sounds impossible. Tony just shakes his head and combs his hands through his hair again, his go-to when anxious and keyed up. “I’ve drank enough crap to appreciate pills. Anything that sprays on?”

The thin-lidded expression Bruce adopts makes him wonder at the wisdom of keeping the volatile scientist around, but his choices are few and time’s ticking. Steve expects results of a project he barely knows anything about and Tony is dying to try out his new work.

“I wasn’t expecting an aerosol and no. Everything configured to your standards works off your bloodstream. Unless you want a needle.” Bruce’s finality sinks on that last word.

 _He knows._ He has to know how Steve poured his concoction into Tony’s nipples while he lolled, clamped and desperate to release his dammed load on the world. The slow creep of a blush rises from the raven’s wing of his goatee, staining his cheeks.

“If it’ll be faster, sure.”

Bruce scoops out three vials and lines them up in a row, wrapped in foil. Steve mustn’t be the only one planning. “Then get up on the table.”

“Sure.” He heads over to the one clear table and hops up on the side, starting to roll his sleeve up.

“Yeah, that’s not going to work. One dose of this and you’ll be collapsed face first on the floor.” Bruce points at the third vial in a row. “I’ll have to get you into your suit.”

Tony curses inwardly while he struggles to keep his expression frozen into arrogant lines approximating amusement and finding life a great joke. It used to be easy to slip into that familiar jacket, but not any more. Lust bubbles out from hidden vents in slow motion poison.

“Fine. How long til it takes effect?”  
  
“After I get everything ready? Not very long. Now get on all fours.”

“ _What_?”

The world shudders to a stop. Cold sweat prickles his brows and his spine stiffens. He rubs his hand protectively over his bicep, trying to drag the sleeve lower.

“I said get on all fours on the table, Stark.”  
  
When he hesitates, Bruce shakes his head. “Either you do it this way or forget--”

No way does he want to adopt that embarrassing position in front of Bruce, serums or no serums. A certain line in the sand grooves itself in his head, something not to be fumbled over.

“Steve,” he hisses.

Banner's expression can contort into the most interesting shapes, gargoyle snarls or comically horrific curls of the mouth that belong on a papier-mache Carnival masks. But something almost gentle moving into place, _that_ he’d never wager on seeing pointed in his direction. Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose and says, “Cherries Jubilee.”

A few seconds of picking his jaw up off the ground pass, and Tony’s brain kickstarts him into awkwardly swinging his legs up to the tabletop. He grumbles under his breath as he flips onto his hip, his hands curling at the edge of the table.  
  
“So it’s kosher. Rogers said I should lend a hand however you need.” Bruce is immediately back to being the tidy, perfunctory genius in the middle of the lab, buzzing about the tables as he gathers what he needs.

Tony wants to glare at him, but Steve’s word lies heavy over his heart even here, so he rests on his hands and knees for about a minute before his impatience and eagerness get the better of him. “How long am I supposed to stay like this?”

“I’ll give you the first dose to let you get back to work.” Bruce points at his wrist. “Let FRIDAY monitor your vitals in the meantime. Any problems, you’re sticking here with me and doing your work where I can watch.”

Just what Tony absolutely doesn’t want. His exhibitionism about stops and ends with Steve Rogers when he’s lucid, though lucidity remains very much up in the air with Asgardian liquor, rampant desire, and an unknown amount of aphrodisiacs roaring through his system.

Little does he know just how much that lode in his blood stream will expand.

Blossoming dials and chemical sequences throw azure bands of light across Bruce’s profile. He can navigate through the dense screens of the mansion’s built-in AIs nearly as well as Tony can, and nothing inhibits him while he directs uploads to cloud sites like a conductor signalling a symphony orchestra to attention.

Tony crosses his forearms and taps his finger, irritable at the delay, anticipating the wreck and ruin. He half expects Banner to run an IV line into his arm when the scientist swivels around, and thanks to the row of processing units, has an open vial ready to go. The glue on the foil seal still looks hot.

“We won’t begin with the muscle relaxants.” Bruce pulls on a pair of latex gloves from the drawer, exchanging old ones he donned in the mixing process. “I’ve seen where you worked on my previous attempts -- and you’re like five versions back, so you know -- and extrapolated your needs from there. Not terribly hard.”

The lump in his throat matches the wild storm of need accelerating his pulse, and Tony closes his eyes in a futile effort to try and calm his heart rate. Whatever he can wave away from Sam or Clint, good fucking luck trying that with a man with too many scientific certificates on his wall from institutions appreciating the brilliant mind of Bruce Banner. He can do this. He’ll have to.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

He misses Bruce’s slow smirk, but not the requirement. “I can’t inject it through your clothes.”

“My arm’s--”

“Your pants, Stark.”

Alarm rings in his head as the red haze clotting his vision, his pulse roaring in his eardrums. He can hardly swallow for that while the scientist waits expectantly behind him, and he trembles on the spot.  
  
Delay earns a low sound beyond the register most humans can make, a basso growl more in line with a wolf scenting musk or something older still. The part of his brain still tied to the dread movements in the night-shrouded savannah kicks into action, primeval risks bringing a sweat to his skin around the ardent kiss of bleak desire.

Bruce freezes, sniffing the air.

He shudders and dips his shoulders lower, pressing his chest into the cool tabletop. The position is humiliating, putting his ass high in the air, and why he does it, Tony barely knows. Only that he ends up facedown and arse up so often with Steve, the inevitable must be playing out.

The right move. Banner relaxes a little and reaches for his trousers, tugging on them. Good Italian clothes resist tearing -- moot point otherwise, if he wants the clothes torn, they’ll tear -- but the low chuckle sounds like the clashing of rocks in a surging tide.

Tony shifts uneasily from side to side, not daring to look back. Sooner he’s through this, the quicker he can lose his thoughts entirely on Steve. His boyfriend is only a cry of alarm to FRIDAY away. The thought calms him, a little, easing his nerves strung taut on adrenaline and copper bright fear.

“Do I need to restrain you?”  

 _Bet you’ve been waiting for ages to say that._ Tony shakes his head.

If Bruce is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he manages to work his hands under Tony’s stomach to loosen the buttons and pulls the pants down, given all of a breath to react to the star-knobbed plug seated between those muscular buttocks.

Neither does Tony see the smile, or the silent adjustment to take a photo on a smartphone only six generations out of date. It does the trick anyways.

“Good?” he mutters.

“Fine. Breathe out, I’ve got to remove this.”

Horror flames along with shame and urgent need. He shakes his head even as the plug jostles inside his hole, displaced by a light touch. Even that much of a turn breaks the seal between oiled metal and gripping muscle, enough that he whines between his teeth.

Bruce swats him casually, a pink mark blooming on his backside. “Quiet. You’re the one keeping me from sleeping, remember that.”

“Why?” He shouldn’t ask. He’s dying to know.

The long pull seems to last forever but, to his credit, the scientist doesn’t toy with him too much. Nonetheless, the suction on the plug refuses to relinquish the prize from his stuffed ass, and his hole clings to the surface too well. For all that burns, he takes a little pride in his muscle tone.

Too late, he feels the cool spritz of lubricant -- he hopes it’s lubricant and not antibacterial gel cleaner -- and the plug pushed back in half an inch and rotated to coat his anal ring liberally.

The rotation so happens to press down on his prostate and that sweet bolt of lightning turns into a cyclone consuming him with a cry. Proves just the right distraction for Bruce to pull out the plug and lay it down on a tray lined in paper, waiting for totally different implements.

Bruce returns to his bag and by the time Tony is functional enough to question what’s going on, proper silicone lube rims his hole and slides inside, a jelly like substance being guided over the inner walls impersonally. The scientist’s touch is nothing like Steve’s; Rogers lingers to torment him, massaging in places, whereas Banner is perfunctory and unemotional.

He feels like an object being prepped, no more unique than a chair or a package for delivery. _And it feels fucking amazing._

Tremors run up and down his limbs as Bruce smacks his inner thighs with his knuckles, until Tony gets the message to spread himself wide. His pants make that difficult, hobbled at the knees, so he tries to shuffle them down until Bruce yanks them away once and for all.

No warning or words follow as the speculum slides in and at first, he can’t even recognize what foreign object works its way into his softened, slack hole. The pucker must still be fairly petite and tight, though, because the slow pressure building against the sides of his sphincter and the inner walls clutching the metal surface hurts a little.

“Let’s open you up.”  
  
Four words are a magic spell in effect. Tony grips the head of the table for dear life as Bruce works the wheel that widens the petals of the speculum. He hears those clicks distantly through a fog, cheeks burning, his starburst being pried further and wider apart. The dull ache from being plugged assists in avoiding any real pain, but his preparations aren’t much compared to true steel stretching him open to Bruce’s gaze.

His eyes water as the movements continue, the last-ditch resistance of his hole pushing out the speculum some and a firm hand pushing it all the way back down. Bruce growls at him again, and the rate of spreading metal increases until he starts to stutter for breath. His walls move further and further apart, clutching at the cold metal, and that aching, gaping void inside him hurts.

Teeth chatter and he mutters, “You lookin’ for China?”

“That’ll do.”

And then he’s forced to wait with his ass gaping around a speculum, pink rim flushed hotter still. Bruce wordlessly captures the sight with his camera and sends a stream of images to Steve, somewhere beyond in the aether.

Not the first time he’s been like this but Tony squirms, pushing up against the unyielding metal intrusion, trying to shake off pain and having no success at dodging the sparkling lust roaring in his veins either. Soon enough he feels pressure on his legs and a solid canvas band secured under the table -- by who or when he has no idea -- anchors his calves just below the knee.

“You keep this up, your chest is next,” Bruce warns from behind him.

Tony tries to stay still, shaking like a flystung horse. “Easy for you to say.”

“Hold still or I mean it, I _will_ restrain your ass.” Banner positions himself carefully, peering down into the pristine rosiness of Tony’s ass, admiring the view in spite of himself. He needs only two moments to inject the serum directly in, and he takes his time to line up his fingers against the metallic frame presented to him.

The first pinch takes him by surprise and he freezes rather than bucks. Tony snaps an expletive when the needle pricks somewhere inside and of all the things he expected, being poked and prodded _there_ was not it. There being somewhere in his ass, deprived of the plug, somewhere in a maelstrom of spreading tendrils that cool and shiver hot at the same time.

His mind tries to distinguish the various effects while Bruce leans over him, pushing down on his tailbone, the better to hold him firm. Initial discomfort turns into a slow prickling reaction as liquid vanishes into -- fuck, fuck, it has to be.

“What’d you do to me?” he asks, almost frightened to know.

“Gave you a mix of endorphins that’ll keep you pliable and unafraid, mostly,” Bruce replies.

 _Mostly_. “The rest?”

“Mostly what you were researching.”

Cold, shivering wonder then overtakes him and Bruce applies another jab quick as a breeze to the same spot as before, right into the heart of his prostate. The pressure only builds with a couple CCs of liquid but it doesn’t matter, not at all, since Tony _knows_ what he researched.

How to keep his cock from firming up in response to immense pleasure. How to keep a nonstop trail of precum spilling out after increasing his sperm count and production, though that went to the back burner for the idea of staying soft and swollen somehow.

Bruce smacks his rump and leaves the speculum jutting out of his ass, obscene a sight as any. “Stay put. It’ll take a good twenty minutes for proper absorption.”

He doesn’t ask Banner about removing it. He only quivers.  
  
“We’ll get to the next soon.” Gliding off, the brunet scientist starts modifying the various screens hanging in midair, projected by FRIDAY to allow him the delights of being a modern mad scientist. Tony’s ring aches around the steel violating him, and his nerves pulse -- his cock too -- in time to his thundering heart, which in turn is governed by the mad rush in his veins. He knows, now, he’s well and truly going to be fucked.

Steve must know, must have guessed, and thus aids Tony even here and now. How can he not love that man any more than he already does? Call in the fucking cavalry to make his wildest dreams come true. Bruce being here is safe, then, and that cloudy satisfaction enfold him even as the spreading heat in his ass leaves him itchy in a stupor. He feels so good, already less anxious and bubbling in the coruscating  sunlight of his need for Steve Rogers.

He doesn't see the almost pained expression on the other man's face. Doesn't matter if the high is artificially induced, Bruce knows exactly what Tony's relaxed countenance and soft moans mean. The moment passes fast as it dawned, hidden away.

Bruce calls from his station, “And who said we couldn’t mix business with pleasure?"

_Time to get to work, Stark._


	3. Into the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preparations continue as the Jotun is assembled. Bruce lends a helping hand to keep Tony occupied until all is ready. If he gets to leave Stark a drooling, horny mess tied to a chair as he's examined? Even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the chapter features Tony begging fairly heavily as I work out ways to refine the character's voice and not sound utterly ridiculous or fake. If you have thoughts to improve this, let me know. This chapter's dedicated to an anonymous commenter on Nipped in the Bud, and thewarriorpony for their unrelenting inspiration. Thank you! <3

In the whirlwind of activity, Tony hasn't stopped to wonder why he floats on a cotton candy high or somehow manages not to stop and stroke himself off then and there.

Aphrodisiacs and endorphins soar through his veins along with who knows what else, and he floats along without much of a care in the world. Exactly as Bruce and Tony intended. Quelling Tony's inner critic without blunting much of his intellect may be worthy of a Nobel Prize.

He would never admit the need to masturbate to the unassuming brown-haired scientist moving between three workstations in his lab. They're men of science and technology, not lovers bending one another over every countertop and standing among spilled chemicals, careless in the pursuit of another orgasm. 

So rarely does life provide an opportunity to work with another genius, a true master of their craft, to a singular goal. Tony slips into the zone after a few mishaps, and as the hour wears on, he dissolves into a fluid dance of corrections and alterations. They banter about the relative principles of this bonding amalgam or that circuitry array. Bruce works with nonstop professionalism, tireless as he spearheads uploading corrections into their shared documentation.

It doesn't dawn on him much the shared dream of the night will be to wreck his ass akin to the star of an Asgardian porn they watched hours ago. Tony can almost forget Bruce sat in the mansion theatre watching the same political drama escalating into a slick bondage orgy as the defiled Queen of Alfheim braved the frost and ice giant realm to regain her throne.

“Gotta hand it to them, they somehow took the best elements of a thriller and hardcore porn, and made something even better,” Tony says.

Bruce smirks. “Asgardians have a lot of time on their hands to perfect their craft.”

“Imagine Earth had something like that. Either crime completely ends because everyone's in a stupor or civilization collapses.”

“I don't think the world is prepared for Thor to unleash that aspect of his culture.”

A chime rings through the lab and he lifts his head, searching for the source. A panel in front of Bruce shines a warm green, flashing a countdown meter, and he returns to adjusting the stabilizers for the _Jotun_. Unlike _Magna_ , he needs far more support for the machine to avoid it shaking straight through the reinforced floor.

“Hey, Bruce.” He flicks his hand and throws a schematic across the room, revealing a blueprint web in three dimensions. “Here's what I can't figure out. How do you keep the subject stabilized during extreme movement?”

“So you don't want a fixed subject?”

The thinnest excuse for securing assistance from Bruce -- an exosuit design -- fell away in their first hour of work. Oddly the surprise hardly concerned usually prurient Doctor Banner. Tony tips his head, examining his own work in detail.

“Any fixed process has too much likelihood of injury, given the forces involved. Subject has to move with the machine.”

“That's easy then. You have flexible arms separate from the machine to move the subject independently.”   
  
“I'd need another programming cycle to synchronize them…”

“And an override option in case anything goes haywire. The mechanisms can move the subject away safely or control the depth even if they can't,” Bruce adds.

Normally Tony might ask what the hell is with Bruce's fixation on disaster. In the groove of invention and creation, his curiosity flat-lines the harsher tendencies of his personality. He nods, and sets to work on modifying the protocol.

Another chime barely interrupts his work, but the screens of code locking up on him pulls him out of the moment. A vague flicker of annoyance blooms as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand. Bruce catches his wrist, pulling his arm down.

“I've got the next set of infusions ready to go. Can I pull you away from that for a few minutes?”

He nods, and allows Bruce to draw him out of the lab. A glance dances over the table. “Shouldn't we use the table?”

“You didn't see the two inches of notes on it? Not hygienic and besides, I'm not reorganizing them because you wanted to save yourself a hundred steps.”

They swing through the hallway together, and end up tucked into a small, brightly-lit room that positively stings Tony's eyes. He squints and lands heavily on a padded chair in the middle of the space. His dark gaze turns up to Bruce, who lays out a few things in a metal dish.

“Playing doctor, Banner?” He's proud of that joke, more than he should be.

“How about we get this over with so you can get back to work?” Bruce says, back to him while he readies the tray.

He shrugs and leans back, head cupped in the padded headrest. The chair absorbs his weight comfortably, and he doesn't even question kicking off his shoes, sock feet sliding into the stirrups that Bruce pulls out to make him comfortable.

“Thanks.”

Bruce murmurs approval and guides him to place his hand on the armrest. “Hold that for a few seconds. Taking a precaution, so don't get too alarmed.”

“Hmm?” Whatever he has to be alarmed about fails to dawn even when Bruce wraps thick mesh straps over his wrists, securing them flat to the chair.

Maybe when it reclines back with a hiss of air depressed out of the hydraulic shaft bolted to the floor. He barely flickers an eyelash, only wincing at the overhead light swung out of the way to keep him from growing blind.

Bruce measures his pupils and nods to himself, then brings out a blood pressure cuff for his upper bicep. The process has such a perfunctory familiarity from years of doctor's visits and appointments to monitor the arc reactor in his chest that he hardly cares anymore, humming along to some inner music while measurements are taken and settled.

“You still with me, Tony?”

“Thinking about how I'd configure the arms. Maybe like the Iron Spider exoskeleton, except something less… you know… arachnid.”

“More humanoid.”

“Yeah. But real hands might be a tad too realistic.”

“The rest is realistic enough, why not that?” Bruce asks. He peels open Tony's pants, and swabs the tip of his flaccid cock with a clear gel.   

He shifts at the chill, the cotton bud rolling around the spongy head in a way that distracts more than anything. The mesh bands on his forearms and wrists keep him from moving very far, and something in that shoots a thrill deep inside. “Wouldn't it be weird to have actual hands on the subject?”

“Not at all. Small sting now.”

Something firm and metal presses to the cum-slit of his cock, and he peers at the hollow tube gliding inside. It's thinner than some of the toys introduced to that forbidden hole, though wider than the ultraviolet Chitauri tentacle that awoke an unholy love for sounding.

Bruce lets gravity take its natural course until just the open tip pokes out, and he adds a steel cage around the crown of Tony's cock. It fits him snugly, and the tightened bolts hold the sound firmly in his urethra for all the protesting muscles try to squeeze and reject the violating metal.

“Plug?” he manages around a wheezy gasp.

“Hollow. I'm going to apply the drugs directly this way. It'll be faster and easier on you.”

With a shrug, Banner turns back to gather the necessary pieces from the tray. That leaves Tony to watch how his shoulders ripple under his coat and the deft movements of his hands, not the steel straw jammed inside his semi-hard cock.

The first spurts of liquid applied from a very small syringe run straight down the center of the sound. He can't so much as squirm while Bruce treats him like any other patient, all straightforward reactions rather than teasing or sensual torment. Under those hands he wants to arch, hell, do anything to seduce the man. _Is Bruce even someone you can seduce?_

Maybe. He's a man like anyone else. Maybe something to ponder, right up to the point a needle enters his range of vision.

“What the hell is that for?”

“Your arm,” Bruce answers in a deceptively mild tone of voice. “The muscle relaxants you asked for. After this, you're going to feel fairly weak, so we need to prep you quickly if you want to test this tonight.”

“FRIDAY, status of assembly?”

She answers instantly. “Eighty-nine percent, Mr. Stark.”

He glares at the needle and then the man holding it. “How much longer til it's ready?”

“Seventeen minutes.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows over the metal rims of his hideously unfashionable, out of date glasses. _He really needs something less evil professor. He'd look hotter if he did_. 

  
With a sigh, he assents; his arm hardly goes anywhere, even if he wanted to resist. Which he doesn't. The sting lasts only for a second and in goes that rather alarming amount of fluid. 

“You should start to feel this after about ten minutes, but we can't take any risks for a fall. So you sit here,” Bruce says.

“What about that?”

He jerks his chin to the sound forcing his cock straight, lolling still on one thigh. When he tries to wiggle his hip, Bruce lays his gloved hand on his stomach. “Hey, enough of that. Let it work.”

“Let _what_ work?”

“The serum that makes your cock as long as if it were erect,” the scientist says just like it's no big deal, taking a blood draw to check his iron counts.

Tony's eyes slowly widen. “What?”

“I saw what you took from my notes and work.” Bruce plunges the syringe into another fresh vial, pulling back on the plunger to drain the contents into the disposable plastic cylinder. “You spent a fair amount of time reviewing the vasodilation compounds and the effects of expansion in soft tissues. I can do the math.”

Maybe now he deserves to curl up and die in a vague frisson of discomfort. He drops his chin, transfixed on the sight of the metal sound caging him. His hands clench tight as the inevitable transpires, and Bruce brings the nose of the syringe to the open core.

“I don't want to be shrivelled up,” he says. A last ditch complaint, even as the endorphin high peels back under the weight of that fear.

“You won't be. Trust me, I made a few refinements along the way, didn't I?”

A flick of his pierced nipple makes Tony surrender briefly to the frisson of barely contained pleasure detonating on his chest, and he writhes, but Bruce grips his cock firmly in a fist, feeding more of that viscous liquid down his urethra to pool somewhere near his prostate.

“Refinements?”

“You'll be respectably large, the way Steve prefers.”

“Steve?”

“Of course. He's waiting to see the progress. You think this was going to be a surprise?” Bruce arches his eyebrow again and Tony's hips struggle to lift, to fill his cock into the hard fingers squeezing him around the hard metal rod. A little movement, just a little friction would feel amazing.

He gets none of that, only a penetrating look and a barked, ‘Sit still.”

“It's so hard,” he mutters.

The last of the syringe's contents pour into him in a flood, the pressure almost overflowing his engulfed tube. A thumb pressed to the mouth of the sound keeps anything from spilling back, and Bruce refuses to let him do anything more than marinate in whatever was devised while he worked.

“No doubt,” Bruce says.

“Fuck, please.”

“No. You can beg me and I won't. You need to absorb that for maximum effect, and I fully intend you to reach a maximum length.” To that end, Banner pulls out a pair of calipers and a steel ruler that gives Tony greater cause to squirm than anything else. But his soft cock is merely measured against the row of black marks, and that copied down onto a pad of paper.

“How long?”  
  
“My business, not yours. Ten minutes otherwise. Can you sit that long?”

Tony tries to raise his hands. “What choice do I have?”

“You're right, none. I'll be over here making measurements,” Bruce says. The quiet tone of his voice lingers with that disaffected professionalism, detached from the man starting to writhe uncontrollably. “You won't be alone. Just in case.”

Reclining with his pants open and his cock starting to swell to semi-hardness on his leg, what more can Tony do? He closes his eyes and dreams of Steve toying with his neglected hole, the plug he inserted in preparation for a Friday night long lost thanks to Bruce.

Truly, he suffers for his art.

* * *

 

Thanks to constant manhandling, Tony might be malforming the arms of the padded reclining chair. He grits his teeth as the latex gloves gripping his phallus give no satisfaction whatsoever, instead slowly drawing him into a spectacular climax.

Damn it all, he deserves that fountaining orgasm.

Mesh straps bind his wrists and allow him nothing more than jerking at the chair, shocked by every little squeeze on his swollen shaft or the roll of that demanding thumb along the engorged veins standing out against his flushed, rosy skin. Any effort to kick Bruce is lost, too, given his feet are somehow bound to the cupped metal stirrups holding him fast.

“There isn't any other way to do this,” Bruce murmured at some point in the last Ice Age, and out of sight, out of mind.

He feels the dent of the calipers while they measure his progress again, a graph helpfully floating midair in front to his eyes. The last data points to plug in show an exponential growth of his soft tissues to the point they should be absolutely hard and erect, but they aren't. Cold comfort for the man grunting, arching to throw off the staid touches.

“Are we done?” His voice is high and frustrated even to his own ears.

Bruce ignores him, just the way he's been ignored for a total of fifteen thousand years, or in reality, something like fifteen minutes, forty-seven seconds. Forty-eight. Not like he's counting.

He's totally counting.

The slap of a soft measuring tape startles him as it wraps around his girth, and he gasps in a tremulous fluttering of a fledgling out of the nest, lungs quavering on the breathy noise. It clinches tight around him and loosens, releasing him bit by bit.

“I think you're there,” Bruce announces.

Tony hasn't had a clear view of his cock since this all began, in part since the chair slid back after the first minute. He likewise lacks any sort of ability to comprehend the activity taking place between his legs, except that someone touches him and he needs so much more than the occasional tug or squeeze on his heavy, leaden cock.

Whatever the serum poured down his urethra was, the results appear to meet with even Bruce Banner's demanding, unfair standards.

He tries not to glare and fails, his eyes dilated and wild. Bruce totally disregards the weight of his displeasure, continuing by bringing out a long red tube he instinctively ought to flinch from, except that part of his brain is malfunctioning, its messages returned as undeliverable thanks to an incredibly high concentration of endorphins, fear suppressants, and stuff -- _yeah, technical term, good going, Tony_ \-- that makes him want to fuck every last fucking thing in sight.

No accident, Bruce had something to do with that. Just as Bruce has every ounce of responsibility for that metal cage gripping the crown of his dick in a tight, painful embrace. When the bolt slides free of the hollow steel sound, the cage cracks open at the center.

He screams, in relief and the rattling sensation of the sound naturally bobbing up a few millimeters, a distance that drags out all the pressure in his beleaguered little channel. Might as well be a star going nova in his cock, the effect it holds on him. Tony's hair sticks to the curved headrest while he tosses his head, shaking all over like a leaf in the winter breeze.

“All that fuss?” admonishes the doctor and his body convulses again while the sound turns oh so slowly, stuffing his cock, the petite rosette at the end flush up against the muscle teasing his prostate.

In the storm surge, Tony tumbles from one high to the next as that sound slides out of him, cool and metallic despite being warm as his blood, and he jounces off every high caused by the inadvertent bump of the flared base.

When it clears his cock, a dribble of precum follows, weak but abundant, spreading out. No need, then, for extra lube but that Bruce douses the length of scarlet tubing. He stares, uncomprehending, right up to the point that its carefully formed round base ends up pushed up to the slit in his crown.

 _Oh. In me._ Dim thoughts for an explosive burst of pleasure rolling over him, taking him under in a red wave. Bruce steadily feeds him the pliable length, something thicker and denser than he expects for mere plastic or rubber or whatever, too far gone to even understand what's being drilled into him.

Whatever it is, this tube is far from smooth, the subtle bubbled bumps along its length fucking him spectacularly from the inside out. Tony braces on the gyno-style chair and throws himself in as high an arch as he can possibly get, the wide mesh straps cutting into the soft points of his wrists and ankles, despite the wool socks providing a barrier to unwanted chafing.

He sees dying stars in front of his eyes and chokes out his sonorous, pleading submission while more vanishes into him, surely a foot of the flexible sound, and still not stopping. What, is Bruce going to plumb his prostate and no way is he big enough to take this much.

Just when Tony imagines the world is about to explode -- or his body -- the progress ends. He collapses supine onto the padding, wrung out and limp, sweat at his temples and the rough texture of his trousers unbearable on his thighs. Bruce hangs over him, sincere as the moon, those rectangular glasses shining in the light to block his eyes behind a wall of shining silvery radiance.

“That's it for now. Two last touches, and you're done.”

 _Cold comfort. Fucking sadist._ Hulk would be. Banner? He never had cause to wonder and now he knows. Tony gathers up enough of his splintered thoughts to consider throwing a curse at the scientist, sand to the eyes, when one firm grip around the tip of his cock halts him again. He imagines shoving his foot into a child's sock might feel something like what happens, and only a delirious cry or a chance glance gives him the least idea.

Bruce works a bright red and blue sleeve in silicone over the bell-shaped shaft, fitting it firmly across the engorged, spongy flesh. Some kind of pocket exists underneath because he slides in two oblong vibratory, small and potent, to flank the great vein on the underside.

He's experienced one vibrator down there before, and the intensity drove him to exhilarating heights. Two down there? He whimpers with very good reason.

Tony can't see how the white metal bracket fits over the sleeve and anchors his sound in place, forming a five-point star once everything is secured. That takes Bruce very little time, and the rest of the snug fitting cage designed to take in the obscene length of Tony's soft cock goes much more smoothly. It helps the subject has been reduced to twitching and gasping for air, a trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth.

The soft puffs of air filtered through the end of the sound certainly brings Tony around again, not in the first moments. By five, though, he is a man on fire, engulfed in shards of violent desire when the reservoirs for each small knot plump out. Full of air, they resist the weak little protests from his slackened urethral muscles, and the sound bulges out the underside of his cock.

His eyes are riveted to the image displayed overhead, right in his line of sight. “My cock. My cock,” he repeats in broken bell tones while Bruce disconnects the air circuitry, leaving the flexible tube firmly in place.

In him. Stuffing him. Stretching him eye-wateringly wide, impossibly so, and the numbers on the screen proclaim to a disbelieving mind how much he has been widened.  

“Not quite the same as the Chitauri, but I think you'll like the effect. Your cock could take a finger or two with a bit of work,” Bruce says by his ear.

His eyes start to widen, whites showing altogether too much. A tweak to his nipple sends him writhing, the strumming making them puffy and tall underneath his shirt again. Bruce strums him, aware he has nowhere to run, and the casual stimulation leaves Tony hanging by a thread to coherent thought.

And he still isn't hard. His cock normally would be pointing at the ceiling and it lies there, heavy and caged, reaching for his knees. Not that long but it looks like someone photoshopped the phallus onto him.

_Kind of like Steve's._

Tony stares at the sight projected by the pitiless cameras and the roughshod moaning grows louder and less organized, one wobbling note that keens all over the scale.

The restraining bonds vanish from his limbs, no longer necessary. He's lucky to hold his head up, much less fight the remainder of the preparations. Bruce lifts him up and holds him steady until they can walk out of the med room, his cock swaying back and forth between his legs. The crown slaps his thigh and his engorged balls force him to widen his gait or else they have to halt every dozen or so steps for him to cry out at their mind-numbing sensitivity.

But Bruce deserves credit, helping him along, even if progress is slower than it would be for a stronger, larger man. _No. Please no Hulk. He'll wreck my hole, I can't…_

They circle back into the lab and those articulated arms are there to catch him, not quite finished. They seize his shoulders in digits coated in a warm synthezoid substance close enough to be flesh, holding him upright. He sags forward, staring at his cock. It looks larger than any zucchini he's ever seen, still smaller -- a bit -- than Steve's. Maybe.

Not even hard, but flagging there, swaying unattended. Bruce smirks at him. “Nice accessory, isn't it? One little change.”

He finds a Cap shield sticker from somewhere, and seals that over the top of the sleeve engulfing only his crown -- but even his glans looks so big, so the addition adds a pretty target for his eyes to fix on.

Bruce needs little help for peeling his clothes away and replacing his designer shirt and trousers with something soft and silken. At first he thinks somehow they raided his closet for a silk shirt, except he owns nothing this sheer or white.

The tunic drapes down over his chest in two thick converging straps that form a vee, and a golden bodice of something iridescent and light -- he can't even name the fabric, gossamer is the best he knows -- envelops his chest. The tightening tie in the back constricts his breathing lightly, or that could be the effect of his nipple barbells catching on the soft silk folds. A sheer panel in deep lapis drapes over his cock, pooling over every dip between his bare legs and caught on the swollen mound. No hiding the shape, nor the matching cage or sound, for all he averts his gaze.

Far more attention is paid to his legs, his socks stripped off when the machine arms lift him as though he weighs nothing. Tony can't much fight when his bare feet are exposed, but he sure as hell tries when Bruce takes his left sole in hand.

Whoever taught FRIDAY to perform pedicures is going to die the death of a thousand paper cuts. Balefire irritation burns deep and low while soft brushes add sapphire lacquer to his toenails one by one, and Bruce adds the gold chains, a row of bells crying out in sunny voices every time he moves.

“What're you playing at, Bruce?” he manages to articulate at some point in the process.

Not until the polish is dry and his arms similarly wrapped in a stack of gilt bracelets to match the collection on his ankles does he receive an answer. The scientist wraps an arm around him and FRIDAY releases Tony. He almost falls, but in his ridiculous getup, surely all that would shred if he so much as sneezes.

Bell's chime noisily. He gets a slow, careful rotation and marched, barefooted and ringing like some goddamn Lady Godiva, into his lab. Through the frosted doors, black-out honoured even now.

“Let's get you ready, little queen. The herald from Midgard is going to be here soon, and it wouldn't do for you to be unprepared.” Bruce's voice holds a deeper, growling basso that tears straight through him.

Tony dares not look back for fear the hands on his shoulder and waist are turning conspicuously jade. Not that it matters. He tends to be dragged more than walking easily, coordination thrown by the lassitude afflicting his joints, a languor deep in his bones like being baked by the sun on a summer's day.

Instead he ends up guided directly into the glossy vision of a lab, the glass panels installed and what few lights there are flickering icy cold with the faintest blue-violet cast. What awaits him steals his breath entirely.

The _Jotun_ juts out from the wall in all its formidable glory: a human impression of a frost giant's phallus, right down to the slight bob of the tip timed to breathing. Nested behind are a pair of balls almost as big as Tony's head individually, or he could be totally imagining while going out of his mind.

The icy blue cock glistens, sporadically coated in another layer of lubricant, oiled to shine as brightly as the heart of a glacier. Indeed, the veins running up the sides appear to carry ice water instead of blood, a dull violet sparkle from within throwing Tony immediately back to the Chitauri and old documentaries about polar explorers revealing the mesmerizing shades of blue -- countless shades beyond Crayola names -- under the white surface. His mouth waters.

Bruce is quick to position him for the blue hands, fully complete unlike the prototypes in his lab, and they lift him like a doll. He cries out as he is splayed and mounted on the _Jotun,_ seated on the shaft up against the wall. Its width forces his thighs to spread, and he can just plant his feet on the ground.

“Your throne, Your Majesty.” Bruce sweeps an exaggerated bow.

“This isn't…”

He stops again as Bruce produces a pair of thick gold rings in his palm, and a length of chain in a forking Y. He knows where those go, and what can he do but tremble and frot the huge fuck toy while the work begins?

Bruce pulls on his soft nipple to pull out the barbell, twisting and rotating the shaft. The gold rings are nearly as thick, and he prods the pierced end through the hole deep in Tony's puffy shaft. He hangs slack in the mechanical hands, head dipped low, the rush of desire thick in his veins.

No matter how light and swift the transfer of barbells to rings, the stimulation to his nubs has him in another dimension of fiery arousal, his nipples burning as they stand raspberry-pink and long behind the translucent silken dress. He can't hide how long they are, not from the scientist tugging on the dusky tips and milking them with soft squeezes. Under the fabric, their darker shade looks like a bruise, the wide areola a full moon beneath.

Bruce nooses each ring with the specially designed chain. The two lines stretch over his chest and join the heavier links that run in a straight, heavier weight chain to his cock. The chain clamps onto his cage, securely anchored, enough to guarantee no easy release.

“Now for the drops…” Those are added one after the other, a row of glittering blue and red pendant crystals that sparkle in the light as only Swarovski can. Ornamented and ready, Tony stares back at Bruce -- plaintive and mildly ashamed.

“Perfect. I'd say you are ready for your debut, Tony.”

“Please,” he breathes out through his swollen, wet lips.

Bruce withdraws back to the door, back turned, though every glistening facet in the room reflects the depraved fantasy to the fullest. Tony's spectral image is an underwater reflection cast against topaz and aquamarine crystal, his legs straddling the iridescent cock in pillars of ivory, his gown perfectly arranged to cling to every curve of his needy body.

His nipples are tugged by the damn chain and crystals glitter, marking his artistic arrangement, as some kind of plaything of a barbarian. The weight on his balls aches, and he shudders in anticipation.

A low chorus thrums through the air, barely heard. Could it be laughter? Under him, the _Jotun_ exudes faint warmth and bobs again, almost a living thing. Almost. 

* * *

 

“Isn't this a sight?”

When does Steve enter? How long has he been there? The words snap Tony to attention and he tries to sit up, serving only to slap his cock lightly against the grandiose image of depravity he humps. His nipples are alight, sizzling restraint gone to ash under the pull of the clamps, nerves singing.

“Uh. Fu-...”

“Language, your highness. We wouldn't want to defile you any more than you already have,” purrs the blond as he slides into the room further, wrapped in a long indigo coat with a heavy hood thrown back to reveal his wheat-gold hair. Where he got it, Tony has no idea.

Since when Steve Rogers has been an actor, no idea either. All he knows is the cruel, predatory look in his lover's eyes and the way that gaze strips him on the spot.

Tony rocks his hips a little.

“I'm not…”

“You are,” Steve replies. “I see no queen in front of me. I see someone dressed up like one.”

Nothing else captures Tony's attention like the stalking, gorgeous specimen of a hunter moving in front of him. Even though he's higher up than Steve, no matter -- Captain Rogers exudes such power and charm to overwhelm everything else in his thoughts.

“That's not true,” he chokes out. He can't remember Aelsa's lines from the movie, only the awe on her face, the torment in her expression while she saw how big the cock she promised to take was. The _lust_. How much she needed that.

“I see a prisoner. Someone who doesn't mean what they say.”

“No…”

“You're playing. I don't think you want this.”

“No!” His voice rises in conviction. “I want it. I _mean_ it!”

Steve pauses, looking up the length of Tony's body so terribly slowly, taking in all the satiny drapery and the length of his cock, the chains and glimmering gold applied by Bruce's liberal hand.   
  
“I don't think so. Someone like you is too proud to yield.”

“I submit,” he hisses, surprised by the eagerness. “Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to take, I'll do it.”

“Anyone could say that.”

The blond stops just out of arm's reach, examining the _Jotun_ and the man straddling the giant's cock. Tony is no elf maid, tall and fit. “And besides, this might be too much for even you.”

Tony trembles under the weight of his denial, unsure whether Steve is serious or not, but he can hardly resist the aphrodisiac or the hot stare glued to him.

“Please. I will do whatever you say. I'll take it. This is what I was trained to do. Let me show you. I won't disappoint you -- if you spare my…”

The words never come out as Steve presses his hand over Tony's mouth, flattening his lips, fingers curled around his jaw. “Big words, Your Majesty. I pray you understand what you ask for, because there's no turning back now.”

He can only nod, eyes dark, pupils blown. That touch is electric and saturates him with an intense shiver, running all the way down to his toes. 

  
“Every inch,” Steve's whisper leaves no space or secrets between them. His mind whirls in the starry brilliance of ruin, a remedy to the seething pleasure of his lover's touch. “You're going to fuck every inch of this cock, and prove you really are a size queen. _If_ you take it -- and _if_ you satisfy me -- then I will intervene with Jotunheim to spare you.”

His eyes are starting to roll back and he groans as Steve hauls him forward, over every ridge and bump of the sculpted masterpiece he needs in his ass, fears so much as approaching his little rosette. His pucker twinges

“Yes,” he says.

“Anyone can pretend to be a size queen. Are you really one, only time will tell.”

“I want it in me, sir, I want it.”

“Want what?”

“This huge cock. I want to be fucked in my ass by a giant's cock…”

The silk peels away to reveal his fat cock, dwarfed by the one he rides. “You're dressed up for it, but just because you come with gems and fat nipples and a caged cock doesn't mean anything.”

“Sir, I'll show you I can take it. Let the giant fuck me. I'll take his cock, I promise.”

“And let it ruin your hole? No, I know you value yourself too highly to debase yourself to a giant cock.”

Tony gasps for breath. He grinds down and rolls, his cock still long and bouncing about. “Sir, please, stuff my hole. Stretch me with that huge cock.”

“You want me to let it gape your hole? Think about how what you're asking for. It's bigger than anything you've ever had. You'll be wrecked.”

“Yes, yes, _please_ …”

Steve grips his chin, meeting his gaze. “Is that really what you want? Riding this like a slut, bred by a frost giant while you cum your brains out?”

Tony's gonna cum right there if not for the sound. He frantically rocks and writhes in the metallic embrace, his eyes rolled back in his skull.

Just the way Steve wants him. He smiles as the shuddering pleasure overwhelms his boyfriend.

“Steve, oh God, more," Tony cries out. "Wreck me. Make me fuck it, stretch me. I want that cock in my hole, yes, _yes_.”

He's ready.

Steve gently paints a streak of his precum down Tony's lips. “As you wish. It looks like a fit for my size queen.”  

  



End file.
